Clara
by sein Henker
Summary: "It drove Irene mental to answer to another woman's name, though. And whoever Clara was, Harry had left her."


Title: Clara  
Summary: "It drove Irene mental to answer to another woman's name, though. And whoever Clara was, Harry had left her."  
Rating: M for sexual themes and alcoholism  
Word Count: 1108  
Other Chapters: No.  
Disclaimer: The British Broadcasting Corporation owns Sherlock and all related trademarks. I do not in any way profit from the use of these trademarks.  
Pairings: Irene Adler/Harry Watson  
Contains: Sex work, BDSM  
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism

* * *

"I'll do it for free if you don't call me 'Clara' this time."

Harry snorted. "Why? You falling in love with me?"

Irene swallowed hard. "No," she said, rolling her lips so that she didn't smudge her lipstick by biting them. "I'm just arrogant. I like my clients' attention on me."

Harry seemed to actually consider this for a moment. She ran her hand through her hair. It was dishwater-blonde and at that uncomfortable state where she hadn't cut it recently enough to call it a pixie but it wasn't quite long enough for her to do anything with it, not that she seemed to be the sort of woman who was inclined to do things with her hair, and it was uneven in the hideous way that grown-out pixies tend to be. She reeked of cigarette smoke and she did not tip generously and she was the dullest conversationalist Irene had ever offered a free fuck. Irene was not in love with her. She wasn't entirely sure she even liked her, but she supposed she did. Well enough, at least. Irene could afford to be choosy about the clients she accepted, and she always accepted Harry. She wasn't that bad looking, Irene supposed. Irene had fallen for a few butches over the years, less frequently than she'd fallen for femmes, but it happened. Butch or femme, though, Irene's tastes inclined toward women far more interesting than Harry.

It drove Irene mental to answer to another woman's name, though. And whoever the fuck Clara was, Harry had left her. (She'd told Irene as much about a thousand times, over the course of several transactions. Irene wasn't entirely certain that 'Harry' was actually Harry's name, and she certainly didn't know Harry's last name, but she knew all about Harry's recently dissolved domestic partnership.) Harry kept coming back to Irene, too. She hadn't gone back to Clara. Clara probably hadn't charged anything, either. It said something.

"Fuck it all," Harry said under her breath. "So do I have to call you 'Mistress'? Or will 'Irene' or 'Ms. Alder' work?"

"Whatever you prefer," Irene said, standing and moving to get her crop. "Or nothing at all, if that's more comfortable for you. But do not call me 'Clara.' Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Deal. Look, before we get started, you got anything to drink?"

Irene took a deep breath and kept her voice perfectly poised when she answered: "I don't do drunk people, for free or for money. We've had this talk before, Harry." And they had. Just once, Irene had turned Harry away because she could smell the alcohol on her breath from the other side of the room. She raised on eyebrow dangerously. "Maybe you don't remember?"

"Right!" Harry said, holding up her hands defensively. "Yeah, I remember! Christ, I just wanted one drink! Don't whip me for it."

"I'll whip you for whatever I like if you don't start behaving," Irene said. She walked over to her crop, laid out in its place of honour on top of her vanity, and she ran her fingers over it, just to make Harry squirm. "Come here," she said. "Unzip my dress for me."

Harry needed a moment to process the order before she jumped to her feet. Irene kept her fingers over the crop and her back straight, and she sighed as loudly as she could. She fucked royalty and Nobel laureates and sad rich assholes like Harry. She wondered where Harry got the money. She didn't have the look or the accent of an Old Money girl, so she must have been functional enough to hold down a good job. Her tattoos didn't really say 'business sector' or 'politics' to Irene, but Harry seemed to be the sort of woman who would always wear a suit and never a dress, so perhaps they were mistakes from her more interesting younger years, and she kept them hidden at work.

Harry's hands were steady as she grabbed Irene's zipper and pulled it down. Harry reached for the straps on Irene's shoulders, as if she were going to help Irene out of it, and Irene decided to let her. She took her hands off the crop for just a moment, to get her dress off, but then she was standing there in high heels and her battle dress, and her crop was well and properly in her hands.

She turned around and flicked it toward Harry with no intention of hitting her, just to watch her flinch. She did.

"Undress," Irene said.

She took a deep breath. "Yes, Ms. Adler."

Irene smiled smugly. That was much better. Harry would think so too, by the end of the night.

Irene watched with minimal interest as Harry undressed, and she wondered if she looked like Clara. No two clients were alike in their selection of whom to patronize, and if Irene was right about Harry being functional enough to hold down a business-sector job, she'd have plenty of drunken colleagues who could recommend Irene to her. Irene was the gay Dominatrix, too. Word like that got around quickly. But she must look similar enough to play the role convincingly when she wasn't even trying, mustn't she? It was odd to think about. Sometimes she'd hear someone call out "Clara!" on the street and she'd subtly look around for the person being addressed and wonder. She could rule a lot of them out for being too old, too young, and too transparently heterosexual, but once or twice a woman had fit all of the qualifications, and Irene had wondered.

It was stupid. Harry was dull, and Irene spent far too much time thinking about her love-life out of a sense of wounded pride. She was jealous of the ex-wife of a woman on whom she had no romantic designs. Emotions were ridiculous that way.

But fuck, if she was going to continue beating Harry more-or-less bi-weekly, she was going to be the only thing on Harry's mind while she did so.

Harry was naked now. She was short and small-breasted and unfashionable even in the nude, which took a sort of talented disinterest to achieve. The untrimmed hair, the faded tattoos, the skin complexion that looked as though it still wasn't quite used to going without make-up... Irene was utterly disinterested. God she was boring.

Irene walked around her slowly, and looked over every inch of her carefully. "Are you ready?" she asked.

Harry nodded.

"Then let's begin."

She struck Harry hard across her bare arse, and as Harry jumped and yipped, Irene caught herself smiling and thinking That was for Clara.


End file.
